Location: A room. Of some sort.Time: Not important, but probably late afternoon to early evening.

Seth Cuthbert, a small, slight boy with short Holocaust survivor hair stepped into the room. He stared at each of the gray walls, then sat down on a couch that seemed to be one of the main decorative features. After a moment, he was confronted by the entrance of another boy, an equally small, pretty sort of a boy in a top hat and a cravat. They were men's clothes, although the boy looked hardly older than sixteen. Seth blinked. "Hello," he said.

"Hello," said the pretty boy. "I'm the Saint. Who are you?"

"I'm Seth Cuthbert," said Seth, slightly puzzled. "You're a saint?"

"No. The Saint. It is different," the Saint informed him laboriously, and sat down next to him on the couch, a good deal closer than Seth would have liked. "And now," he added. "We wait."

"We wait for what?" asked Seth somewhat nervously. There was something fundamentally indecent about the Saint.

The Saint shrugged. "For the people to come. I expect they will. I," he added, with a flourish of one hand, "am a magnet. For people. Pretty people especially."

Comments

Pasha blushed, shy and flattered and sort of surprised, but came over anyhow. "Ah," he said, unsure whose, if anyone's, eyes to meet, "what do you want," he paused, distracted, slightly, by want, "to know?"

Pasha's jaw dropped and, despite the blood rush to a slightly lower part of his body, he blushed still more. "Um," he articulated. "Gack." He shook his head, trying to restore higher brain functions. "I. Um." He chewed on his lip. "Both. Yes. That."

The Saint laughed. "You're not much of a philosopher, are you?" He asked, squirming happily under Sev's touch. "You're also quite hard," he added, the blend of contemporary slang and Victorianspeak strange in his mouth. "Is there anything you'd like to tell us?"

"We may have," Pasha agreed, sitting down with his back against the couch, unable to watch/i> just yet, because, gah, ack, urk and other similar sorts of guttural noises were all that would really come of it. "I've met lots of people." He was, as ever, noncommittal.

"I think you ought to meet me," the Saint said, getting up and sitting down next to Pasha, rather too close to him, particularly for being without a shirt. "I'm the Saint, except if you want you can call me Lytton, and. . .yes." He trailed off, looking expectantly at Pasha.

"Oh," Pasha replied, trying not to get distracted but failing, sort of. "Hello." He smiled in a twitchy sort of way. "I'm Pasha." He scratched his nose. "Have you seen someone else?" he blurted, finally. "Older, sort of boring? Probably cranky about something?" He sighed. "I came in here thinking he was in here, because I thought I'd heard him calling, but he isn't here."